


Sick Obsession

by shittyshittyfuckmytitty



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/M, IT 2017 - Freeform, IT Chapter Two Spoilers, Multi, Patrick Hockstetter - Freeform, The Bowers Gang - Freeform, and neither is patrick, patrick hockstetter imagine, patrick hockstetter x reader, patrick's mom isnt ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24294715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittyshittyfuckmytitty/pseuds/shittyshittyfuckmytitty
Summary: Patrick Hockstetter isn’t big on competition. Always being used to getting what he wants, Patrick decides to go to extreme lengths to get his prize: you.
Relationships: Henry Bowers/Patrick Hockstetter, Henry Bowers/Victor Criss/Patrick Hockstetter/Reginald "Belch" Huggins, Patrick Hockstetter & Reader, Patrick Hockstetter/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 27





	Sick Obsession

**Author's Note:**

> this is also on my tumblr rvf3

“And you just found this cat, Patrick?” his mother had asked him timidly as he sat at the kitchen table, eating his cereal.

“Yep. It was on the road and I decided: why not give it a proper burial? It’s the least I could do,” Patrick crunched on his cereal and then his eyes shot up to his mother’s, “you know, because it reminded Belch of his damn cat.”

“That’s really sweet of you, Patrick,” his mother smiled down at her son softly before diverting her gaze to the large black rubbish bag on the kitchen floor. “Well, I hope you treat the kitty with respect. The same as you would a person.”

Kitty. It isn’t a kitty, Patrick thought, trying to prevent his eye roll. It was a full grown cat with claws that dug into knees and sliced them to pieces. Thank the Lord Patrick had so many of the same pair of jeans.

A smile forced its way onto Patrick Hockstetter’s face, and though it didn't meet his eyes, his mother ate it up anyway. Her sweet Patrick, going out of his way to hold a funeral for a poor kitty he found dead on the street. He doesn’t answer her and when he doesn’t, she planted a soft kiss to his forehead. “There’s a shovel in the shed.”

I know, he thought, but he just shot her a tight and forced smile as she continued to speak. “You can use that.”

Sweat drips from his forehead and masks his hair as he continues to dig up the dirt from the ground. It’s hot and he’s rid of a shirt, his eyes edging to the rubbish bag every few seconds to make sure it’s still there. Patrick’s nervous, maybe, for the first time in his life, but he’s also proud. In some sick and twisted way, he’s gotten away with everything. He’s won, cheated the system.

The shovel is familiar to him. The way his hands wrap around it is familiar and he tries to ignore the pounding of his heart as he digs and digs and digs. If it gets too hot, he’ll begin to smell and that won’t help Patrick at all. The hole is deep now - still not deep enough, but deep. Six foot is what he’s going for and what’s it at now - three, four? God, the effort. Patrick wishes he would have put him in the fridge instead. It would have made things so much cleaner and smoother. He would have just waited for him to decompose and scattered his bones around the quarry carelessly and then leave, void of any acknowledgement that it even happened.

No, this idea is better. Much better. He can almost imagine it now: Ryan Pillock, 16, missing, all over the news, all over posters that hang up in town. Blame it on the problems at home which caused him to run away or some sick twisted psychopath but you can’t blame it on Patrick because - well, where’s the evidence? Beneath a pile of cat bones?

He had to get rid of him. Patrick knows this, knows this as he digs and digs and digs. He doesn’t like competition, doesn’t like people that try and take what belongs to him and that’s what she is. His. Watching Ryan Pillock and his hands trail and linger at her waist made him snap and in ways, he blamed the death of Ryan Pillock on her. If she had just left Ryan alone like Patrick had told her to, he would still be alive. Granted, sad because his girlfriend had left him, but alive nonetheless.

Patrick’s throat is dry as he stands in the massive hole that’s just as big as him and he gasps for air. For hours he worked, dug and dug and dug a hole and he’s not near to being done but he has to try. Quicken up the pace, so that’s what he does. Pulls the black rubbish bag towards him, his eyes narrowed as he opens it, but his scowl breaks as he gags. It stinks. Jesus, who thought it would smell like that? He almost chokes up a shit load of vomit, his eyes watering as he tries to breathe something fresh, something clean.

The guy hadn’t even been dead that long.

“Fat fuck,” Patrick grunts as he grabs his shoulders, tugging at the body with frustration, trying to pull him in. “Why are you so bloated?”

Ah, yes, right. Patrick remembers. Shovel’s weren’t as hard as he expected them to be - sure, they did the trick, a quick WHACK! on the head and down Ryan went, but it didn’t really kill him. Patrick realised that when dragging the body and almost dying out of fear when a hand grabbed at his ankle, panicking and almost shitting himself out of terror. He’s bloated because of the amount of water that he inhaled when Patrick forced his head into the water and finally, finally killed him. Drowning wasn’t Patrick’s first choice for murder, but it definitely worked because he didn’t grab Patrick’s ankle again.

The body falls on the ground with a thud and Patrick stares down at it. He looks different. Ugly, even. Uglier. He wasn’t a good looking kid. She could do so, so much better. So much better. Like himself, even. He scowls down at the body and in a swift movement, he kicks Ryan’s belly. It’s a low blow - the kid is dead, but Patrick doesn’t really care. He snorts slightly as he stares down at Ryan’s body before clambering out of the massive hole he dug to shovel back in some of the dirt.

The sun is scorching now. Patrick huffs, his chest heaving, his body almost collapsing with exhaustion. His throat no longer dry, but parched. He feels like he’s going to pass out and he’s almost certain he will, but instead he doubles over and throws up.

Straight into the open grave.

It takes a few minutes for him to return to his calm composure. Tears bubbled out of his eyes from the bitter taste of his own bile and he was suddenly aware that the only thing he had eaten was some cereal he didn't even like. God, it tasted like ass.

He groans slightly, kicking the bag towards him again. When he finally recovers and swallows the taste of bile, he pulls the cat out from the rubbish bag and sighs heavily. If she doesn’t acknowledge him after this, he’ll make her. God, he’ll fucking make her. She’s his, his and nobody else's. Get rid of the competition, Patrick. Make her yours, Patrick. Good job when she’s just going to ignore him. Not for long, though.

Patrick cares less for the cat than he does for Ryan. He grabs it like he’s going to hang it on a washing line before he drops it into the grave, staring down at it for a few seconds. He didn’t actually kill this one, either. He really did find it on the road and offered to bury it because Belch wouldn’t shut up about it.

Night begins to fall by the time that Patrick finishes shovelling the dirt back into the grave. He’s sweaty, both hot and cold at the same time. The air is brisk now, what with it getting darker and his mother has arrived home. He heard her car and he hears the backdoor open as she walks out, feels her hand press against his clammy shoulder. He’s tall, taller than her and she has to look up at him, a soft smile on her face as she cups his cheek in her hands.

“You need a shower,” she comments, her voice proud as she rubs his shoulder affectionately, “but I just wanted you to know I’m happy that you gave this kitty the burial it deserved.”

“Thanks, mom,” Patrick says, gazing down at her through his lashes, swallowing the words he wants to say, screams of ‘it’s not a kitten, it’s a fucking cat’, because let’s face it: she wouldn't understand.

“Dinner’s ready. Go… clean up. You can have extra.”

–––––

She feels the breeze on her scraped knees. Tears brew at her eyes as the air spits and howls at her wounds but she trudges on through the wind, trying to fight her way back to her neighbourhood. Her heart races in her chest, her bones creak with every movement, her mouth tastes like blood. She ran as fast as he could, she slipped through his fingertips and she paid the price. He’s aggressive, he’s mean and more importantly he’s unpredictable, not stopping until he gets what he wants and what he wants is her.

Cars don’t litter the streets at this time of night. There’s a curfew and a soft sigh breaks through her lips as she cuts through the park, avoiding the forest and Neibolt Street. He’s watching her now, he’s got her in his eyesight - sick and twisted, he licks his lips as he watches her walk home, her hands gripping her bag, her head turning every few seconds to make sure he’s not there.

But she’s not careful enough. Patrick Hockstetter knows enough about her to know her habits, the way she scans her eyes - he hides in the shadows, behind anything he can find, his outfit perfectly contrasting with the low light from lamp posts. She’ll look and look until she’s certain he’s not there and that’s when he’ll grab her, he decides. He’ll take her when she’s most vulnerable and he’ll toy with her - enough to satisfy himself but not to scare her off completely - twist her mind, use her like a pawn. Life to Patrick is a cat and mouse game and she just happens to be his unwilling victim.

The signs were there. She should’ve noticed them. Patrick wishes he could sympathise with her situation, but he can’t. In his eyes, she brought this upon her dress. Her short skirts and long legs, the rise of her shirt and the flash of her skin, all of these things brought him to her. It’s her fault, not his.

If she kept a close enough eye on Ryan, she would have been walking home with him, but instead she’s not. She’s alone and sad, trying to get to her neighbourhood before he gets to her. She misses Ryan and she’s almost certain Patrick had something to do with it, more than almost certain: definite, but she can’t prove anything. He’s smart, kind of, and covers his own tracks well.

Patrick flips out his pocket knife. He’s close to her now - so close he can see the raw red of her knees and he can’t help the smirk that paints his face. She looks so scared - her face is twisted into worry, her eyes are big and glassy and her lips are parted, her teeth nibbling at her bottom lip every so often.

God, he’s sick and he loves it. Whenever he thinks of her his fantasies become distorted, his mind clouded with lust and the urge to take. Take, take, take: it’s all he wants to do, is take from her, take everything he can. Patrick wants to satisfy this urge, this craving, but he won’t, not to an extent where she’ll hate him for it because he wants her. Wants her to follow him blindly, wants her to worship him. He’s her God and he wants her to know that, wants to be treated like it.

She rounds the corner, her heart hammering in her chest. To get to her neighbourhood she just needs to squeeze her way down the thinness of the alley and then she’s safe, safe and sound, at home with her parents who can coddle her. Wrap her in cotton wool and keep her secure.

And this is when he takes his chance. Patrick is slick with his movements, his foot curling under hers and she trips, her heart racing now, her eyes squeezing shut. She screams with everything she has, her chest rocking and heaving, sobs racking through her body but nothing breaks through the seam of his hand that’s wrapped around her mouth. Nothing breaks through, not even when he throws her body into the damp brick wall, not even when he’s got his knife out and pressing it against her throat, not even when he’s gazing at her with such hunger in his eyes, not even when he looks like he’s ready to eat her up.

God, she’s so, so, so fucking pretty and Patrick fucking hates her for it. His face contorts as she trembles and cries, mascara pathetically running down her face and instead of soothing his frustration, instead of making him feel bad, it makes him boil with rage. And he recoils, recoiling so quickly it makes her flinch, her wet eyes gazing up at him, her lashes slick with her tears and she thinks, foolishly, he will leave her alone. But he doesn’t. Patrick stares at her, his eyes narrowing and then he spits at her face and soon after, he’s got his grip back on her neck, this time tighter, this time with meaning. His spit stays there, and as gruesome as it sounds, she looks prettier with it on her.

Always so pretty.

She’s sobbing now. Shaking against him, her body so little and his eyes soften in mockery. “Is the little baby crying?” Patrick asks her, his eyes dreamy, clouded over with lust, with need, with want, and this only makes her cry more. “Good. I like it when you cry. Ruins this pretty darn face of yours,” he hums lowly, his body moving closer to hers now, his crotch brushing against hers. She’s in the same short skirt and he can see the raw red of her knees now, sees the little droplets of dried blood on them. “Because you are just so, so pretty.”

“Patrick,” she whispers, her voice coming out a whiny cry, her cheeks stained with fresh tears, her eyes brewing with even fresher ones, “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick.”

She says his name with desperation in her tone, wanting to wiggle free of his grasp, trying to make his name sound human in her mouth. Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. It’s like she’s chanting a curse and her stomach churns everytime his eye meets hers. If she gets the chance, she’ll punch him, but right now, she can’t. She’s trapped, his hands wrapped around her wrists, forcing them above her, his body weight pinning her to the wall. He’s lanky, tall, not the strongest build, but he’s sick and twisted: he’d have his way with her right here right now if he wanted to, but she still clings on to the hope that he won’t.

“Didn’t your mama teach you any manners, ladybug?” He squeezes her cheeks, admiring them, admiring her, but still being rough, squeezing them so hard that prominent bruises will be left behind. “Or are you just choosing to be rude?”

“No,” she shoots out strings of denial, her eyes stinging with tears, a gentle sob breaking through the part in her lips. “I’m sorry, Patrick.”

“For what?”

“For being rude and - and inconsiderate, of your feelings.”

Patrick stares down at her, his eyes so soft and so harsh at the same time, his lips curling upwards into a smile. “I’ve missed you,” he says, his voice remorseless as he moves his hands from her face, eyes studying red marks that paint her skin in the shape of his fingertips.

“I haven’t been busy,” she mumbles, trying to hold back her sniffle as his breath fans her face again, his eyes drinking her in. “You could’ve just stopped by, said hello.”

Being nice to Patrick to lower his guards is a terrible plan, but it’s the only one she has. His eyes narrow slightly, brows furrowing in annoyance. Her words seem to have impacted him, his smile being quickly replaced with a bitter scowl. “You were always with him, and I could never get you alone,” his voice is hush, gentle, a whisper and he quickly replaces his distasteful expression with another smile: this time, forced as he brushes some strings of hair from her delicate face, “but now I can. Clearly.” His tone is dry. “It’s better now he’s gone. I can see you more often.”

There’s nothing to be said for a few seconds afterwards. He wipes her tears softly, his eyes scanning every inch of her body. She relaxes beneath him, finally, and because of this her shirt nudges, exposing the skin of her shoulder. A simple movement, but a movement she shouldn’t have made. Cold air nips at her skin as his face falls, his eyes darkening with each passing second, a deranged chortle breaking through his lips. Patrick’s heart falls when he sees it, the red marks on her shoulders. Her skin is bruised and bitten, ripped and sore and he isn’t the one to have done it and in that, rage brews inside of him. She looks up at him, her eyes wide and hypnotic, her lips full but bruised from nibbling on them. She stares up at him as he processes everything, unaware of what’s going on in his head, unaware of what he’s going to do next.

Patrick has always carried around a knife in his jean pocket. He doesn’t use it often - when he does, it’s usually to irritate some poor kids by cutting their hair or threatening them with a knife, but he’s never actually hurt somebody with one. Sure, he’s trailed his knife down someone’s neck, maybe nipped them a little bit, cleaned their blood up with his tongue. These were always sexual acts: never violent, never out of pure anger, but as his eyes drink in the lovebites on her neck he can’t help the feeling of raw frustration in his bones. It’s dark in the alley, especially since the sun has begun to set and curfew is beginning to roll over. He takes out his knife from his pocket and it reflects the dim light, gleaming mischievously. She isn’t quick enough to notice it - she’s too busy studying the expression plastered over his face that she can’t read, her throat dry, her heart thudding in her chest.

“What are those?” he asks quietly, his voice deranged, low and venomous. She turns her head to see them and she angles her shoulder awkwardly, her heart dropping when her eyes finally adjust.

“Patrick-”

“Huh,” he says, his body pressing against hers again, this time much harder, this time restricting her movement to the point where her lungs begin to scream for air, “and here I thought that you were actually sorry. You know, I never thought you’d actually be into someone like him,” his voice is practically a snarl as he presses the blunt of the blade into her thigh, his hands shaking with anger, “but I guess I don’t know you as well as I thought I did, ladybug.”

It isn’t long before the trembling in his hands stops and he brings the knife down to her leg. He doesn’t cut her yet, no, he doesn’t cut her until he orders her too look up at him, watching as her eyes pool with tears, sniffles gently rocking her body, desperate pleads spewing from her lips. Patrick’s eyes narrow as he presses the blade into her skin and she yelps: yelps so loudly she almost alerts every being that’s rushing home before curfew, yelps so loudly that Patrick gazes, seething with anger. There’s something so raw about him, something so terrifying as he cuts her skin open as if it were an arts and craft project. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cringe when blood pools from her leg, instead he admires it, a sadistic and rough smile on his lips. He’s insane, she thinks, her heart hammering in her chest as he nips at her skin again, her eyes prickling with tears, her throat tight with fear.

She’s scared. His eyes have clouded over with hunger, need, want and suddenly she’s not so sure he’ll stop himself from doing whatever he wants. Patrick’s desperate now, needy, craving her and nobody else, nothing else. His knife runs over her skin, tears it apart, writes his name and she cries out, finally forcing some distance between the two of them and as Patrick tries to readjust she raises her closed fist, her determined eyes red from crying and her cheeks stained from her tears, and smashes it against his face. The impact is instant: Patrick recoils, pain exploding in his nose, blood spitting out of it like a broken water fountain, and in his moment of weakness, she kicks him: her feet plant on his crotch and she kicks with all of her might, ignore the shock of pain that travels up her thigh, her rush of adrenaline numbing her wounds.

Strings of curses leave Patrick’s mouth as he tries to regain his posture, his hands covering his nose, his face hot with anger and embarrassment. When he was punched, his knife fell and his eyes scan the floor for it, desperately trying to find it before the police do. He’s no fool - he can hear the slamming of her feet and he sees her rush down the alley towards her neighbourhood, grunts of pain leaving her mouth as she pushes and pushes with all her might - her parents will notice the gash on her leg and they’ll demand to know how she got it. Not who from: no, she’s not silly enough to tell them that, but he knows she’d tell them where she was attacked. His entire face feels stuffy, as if a cloud was sitting atop of him, stopping him from breathing and as he pulls his hand away from his face, he gasps for air, trying to find any way to fuel his lungs. His eyes dart all over the floor, trying to ignore the blood that paints his hands. Patrick scrambles towards his knife, picking it up quickly, so quickly that he forgets to watch out for the blade and slashes it against his left palm as a mistake.

Curfew is closing in on him and he doesn’t have much time. Patrick groans as he trudges out of the alleyway, wiping his shaking hands on his jeans, his eyes glazed over with menace. She’s a tough one, he’ll give her that, but Patrick’s always loved the thrill of the chase.

––––––––––––––––––

Beer in hand, Patrick solemnly stares at the television. There’s nothing on - just static, dull static and Henry peers over at him, dangling his cigarette between his fingers. The blonde doesn’t stop peering at his friend, no, not until Patrick’s head snaps towards him, his eyes burning with anger, his nose and eyes bruised. God, he looks fucking embarrassing with a bandaid on his nose, but Henry doesn’t bother mentioning it.

He doesn’t want to add fuel to Patrick’s fire. No, not today.

“How did’ya even break your nose, idjet?” Henry asks, bringing his cigarette up to his mouth and taking a long drag.

Patrick’s face falls slightly, his eyes empty and he shrugs his shoulders. “I didn’t,” he answers, his attention going back to the television, his fingers interlocking, a frown on his face as he repeats himself: “I didn’t.”


End file.
